Chapter 1 #2
My fingers press harder into the counter. Happy thoughts, Daisy. I can’t show my guests a good time if I burst into tears over a bad memory. A change in conversation would help, but for someone who claims to be traumatised over that night, this lady sure likes talking about it.
‘One of the wraiths nearly caught me. But there was this . . . glimmer of green, in the corner of the park. The wraith stopped moving. The Souleater stopped moving. So I ran. Escaped through a side gate before they renewed their attack.’
Wonderful. I hope she’s not expecting some kind of congratulations. The man rubs her back, and while it’s nice he’s comforting her, it’s hard to ignore the jealous beast roaring in my head. Not only did I fail to evade anything, I also don’t have anyone to rub me better.
Some people have all the luck.
‘Well, I’m pleased for you,’ I say. My smile is so tight I fear my face might crack.
‘And I’m sorry for you.’ Her focus hasn’t left my arm. Ugh. Don’t say it. Don’t ask me. Please, please, don’t – ‘What does it do?’
For fuck’s sake. Nobody would ask someone about their grey hair or a pimple on their nose, so why is it acceptable to say, Hey, what terrible magic does that thing on your wrist contain?
That’s the other fun fact about Souleaters: once they’re channelling your worst emotion until it’s the only thing you can feel – in my case it was terror, surging and surging through my veins until I was paralysed – eventually, they have to channel some of the magic back.
A fair trade that isn’t fair at all, because all they have to give in return is a slither of dark magic in the form of a hex, a terrible curse individual to each victim.
I touch my arm. I suppose I should be grateful. If they don’t stop after the hexmark has appeared, if they take and take until your body can’t endure any more, you’ll end up dead. A withered husk of nothing.
That’s what happened to Astin’s sister.
Whatever expression is on my face is enough to make the man nudge his companion. ‘We should just be grateful not to have hexmarks of our own.’ To me, he adds, ‘The rooms?’
‘Right. Yes.’ I force myself to perk up.
I can’t change the past, but I can improve the present, in the only way I know how: spreading joy.
And the best way to do that, I find, is by helping people achieve their full romantic potential.
I flick the diary open in the pretence of checking the calendar.
‘I’m sorry. We only have one room available.
’ For good measure, I add, ‘It only has one bed.’
‘Oh.’ The woman’s gaze slides to her partner, pink flooding her face.
The man, meanwhile, has suddenly found a groove in the bar top very interesting. ‘We’re, um, not together. I mean, we’re travelling together, obviously, but we’re not . . .’
Not yet.
My grin returns, my cheeks lifting higher and higher, pushing any thoughts of hexes and Souleaters up, up and away. This, this right here, is far more important. It’s much easier to pretend bad things don’t exist when love is blossoming before me.
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. You’re welcome to try the Duck in the Dark, but it’s twenty miles further into the forest, and between you and me, the name’s a little too literal. Nobody wants to be woken by quacking in the night.’
The woman chews on her lip, and the man immediately fixates on the way her teeth sink into the plump flesh. I watch with no small amount of glee as he swallows. Hard. I’m practically giddy. He wants her so badly I’m afraid he might throw her over my bar and take her here and now.
‘It’s one night,’ he says. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage.’
Their gazes connect again, as though tied by an invisible string. I can already sense those knots tightening, pulling together until they can’t be undone, and the room I’m offering is the final flourish; the bow sealing everything shut.
I slide the solitary key towards them. Casually. Really, I want to shove it in their hands and march them straight upstairs. ‘Here you go. It’s fifty pieces of gold for the night, with breakfast included.’
‘Actually –’ a deep, all-too-familiar voice says from behind me. I fight the urge to groan when heat hits my back. ‘We do have a second room available.’
Ugh. Every inch of me tenses. Around the time Astin stopped reading numbers over my shoulder, he started meddling.
He says this is acceptable because I am also meddling, but everyone knows meddling with meddling can only lead to .
. . well, an excess of meddling. Which cannot be a good thing.
In fact, I know it’s a bad thing because he is ruining my plan to get these two clearly in love people in the same bed.
I tread on his toe. ‘That room’s flooded, remember? A pipe burst.’
His arm brushes my side as he fishes out another key. He meets my untruth with one of his own, his breath hot and his voice low against my ear. ‘It got fixed.’
Hexes, he’s infuriating. Sometimes I wonder why I let him stick around. Granted, he’s willing to work for free in exchange for room and board, but who really needs pretty flowers and well-maintained bushes? Not me.
I spin round, ending up with a nose full of linen shirt for my trouble (he has seven in total, dyed a different colour for each day of the week.
Today is green, so it must be Thursday).
He retreats several steps, the new inches between us allowing me to look at him properly.
And by look, I mean glare. And by glare, I mean force him to read my mind and know I am on the cusp of making another successful match.
The problem is, Astin knows exactly what I’m thinking, but he doesn’t believe me.
He doesn’t believe in love at all. He gives me a bland smile, like he already thinks he’s won, which only makes me glare harder.
Unfortunately, glaring at Astin leads me back to looking at Astin, which I generally prefer not to do.
Nobody with such terrible opinions should have a jaw that chiselled. It’s unfair.
‘Here you go.’ Although he’s talking to the couple, his blue eyes stay locked on mine as he pushes the second key over the bar. My blood pressure spikes. ‘One hundred gold per room. Dinner’s an extra twenty, if you want it.’
The couple murmur words of thanks and set off for the steep staircase in the far corner, allowing me to seethe at my gardener in peace. Once they’re out of sight, we’re left with nothing but the crackle of the fire and the rain lashing at the window for company.
‘I can’t believe you did that.’ I shove the lust-sprinkled roses to the far side of the bar, given they’re useless to me now. ‘They needed my help!’
Astin rakes a hand through his hair, showcasing knuckles bruised from doing goodness knows what.
I’ve never considered gardening a dangerous activity, but he frequently appears to have gone ten rounds with a trowel.
When he pulls his hand free, his hair falls over his forehead in waves, as black as onyx but looking as soft as silk, not a single strand out of place, as though he’s recently visited Madame Lucinda’s salon in town.
It’s baffling to me, how a man who spends most of his day outdoors manages to keep his hair that tidy. I hate him all the more for it.
‘What they needed,’ he says, ‘is the two rooms they asked for. And you need the extra money. You’ve run out of credit with –’